


Betrothal

by isasolan



Series: Arafinwë [2]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Love at First Sight, Marriage Proposal, Puppy Love, Teen Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-06 20:18:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1111089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isasolan/pseuds/isasolan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Young Finarfin recalls how they met as he proposes to Eärwen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Betrothal

**Author's Note:**

> Arafinwë = Finarfin, Ñolofinwë = Fingolfin  
> Alparon exists only in my head :)

This is it, he thinks as he bends one knee in the middle of the throne room. The moment he’s been rehearsing in his head for months.

 

He’s not been to Alqualondë in ten years. He was a child then, barely thirty. Arafinwë is not yet of age, racing after the wheels of time to attain forty years - the official onset of adolescence. He’s grown in the meantime, he’s already taller than Fëanáro and just the size of Ñolofinwë. Being called “little brother” by them already sounds funny. And there is still time. Arafinwë can yet grow some more, and they will cease seeing him as a child.

 

Arafinwë youngest Finwë who stays alone in the gardens rather than following his brothers everywhere. Arafinwë quiet Finwë who hears the thoughts of those around him. Arafinwë sweet Finwë who dances and sings with his sisters instead of racing on horses. Arafinwë un-Finwë who sits long hours in the library perfecting his handwriting rather than pounding nonsense in the forges.

 

He realised quite young that he did not belong in Tirion, full of towers and forgers and quarrels. Ashamed of the stares and the thoughts and the whispers that the meekest son of Finwë kicked and screamed just as loud as the other two when forced to learn Ñoldorin crafts. His mother stroked his hair one day and said “no more forging” and at last Arafinwë was free to sing and pray in the gardens of Valmar with his mother’s kin. Golden-haired children, just like him. The first friends he ever made.

 

He thought he was content at last. But then he met _them_.

 

His father took him to Alqualondë for a royal festival, because none of his brothers was free to attend. Bringing a son who was still a child was better than bringing no son at all. “It’ll do him good,” Finwë’d told his mother before they left, “to stop clinging to your skirts for once.” His mother had said, “he’s still a little boy,” and Arafinwë had cried despite knowing the trip would not be long.

 

During the feast he sat next to his father in a chair that was too large for him, afraid and wishing Finwë would hold his hand. It was Olwë who held it, kneeling in front of him with kind blue eyes. He said, “I am father to a little boy and a little girl of an age with you, why don’t you play with them?” and he’d taken him outside to the beach where silver-haired children jumped on the waves.

 

“Come swim with us,” the boy told him.

 

Arafinwë bit his bottom lip. “I can’t swim.”

 

“I will teach you,” the girl said, and when their eyes met his fëa leapt so high he knew at once that he would marry her.

 

He told her, of course, yet her brothers all laughed. Eärwen shushed them, but the eldest said, “my sister will never wed someone who can’t swim” with a roll of his eyes. Instead of crying Arafinwë felt for the first time a violent desire to prove someone wrong. “I’ll race you,” he said, lifting his head proudly to meet the tall Teler’s amused gaze, “you’ll see.”

 

He practised day after day in the creek with Eärwen. One of the brothers joined them, the first one he’d met. His name was Alparon. He showed him how to hold his breath underwater. She taught him to swim under the stars, far from the Light of the Trees. They played with the swans. They ate raw shrimps crouched on the sand. She strung pearls for him.

 

He had never known fun like this.

 

A month later, Arafinwë raced the eldest son of Olwë and lost. The brothers still embraced him, all of them, and called him bold and fearless, a worthy Teler. Arafinwë was used to losing, but not to being called bold.

 

“Does this mean I may still wed you?” he asked Eärwen, covered in salt-water from the race.

 

“If you ask the proper way,” she’d said, and kissed him on the cheek.

 

Ten years of increasingly desperate prose. They were childish letters at first, telling her of his days and his studies and his Vanyar friends. Her enveloppes smelled of the sea. Once, she even sent him a seashell. He missed the waves, he missed the swans, he missed the Teleri. He missed her.

 

He would not ask her to come to Tiron, too bright and too stern. He wanted to roll on the sand and wet her silver hair. He wanted to go back. His parents advised caution, they were still very young. They said to wait. Arafinwë obeyed, but his letters grew longer. He could not conceive a day without telling her how it went, and without sitting in the garden to read about hers. His last missive, however, had just said _if I ask the proper way, what will you answer?_ And her reply had arrived with the waxing of Telperion, short and perfect: _Yes_.

 

So here he is. In Alqualondë, before Olwë and his wife and Eärwen. And her brothers, who are now grown, and look at him just as amused as the day they met him. Arafinwë fidgets with the hem of his tunic, realises what he is doing and clasps his hands together to stop. The whole court is watching, if one may call a court the dripping of people who roam in and out of Olwë’s tower with no ceremony. Still, their eyes are on him, on his golden hair unlike theirs, on his white cloak with his father’s sigil embroidered at the back. His sister’s craft. He clears his throat.

 

Eärwen smiles at him. She has grown too, her silver braids spilling on the dark skin of her arms, fair and coy as she squirms in her seat. She wears strings of pearls in her hair, on her neck, on her wrists. But it is to her eyes his gaze is drawn, her clear blue eyes in which Arafinwë glimpses a spark unnamed and unknown. His fëa stirs towards this light, and he marvels when hers brushes against his to revel in his presence with blinding briefness.

 

“I love you,” he says in awe.

 

Gentle laughter washes over the court. Arafinwë blushes. His father instructed what to say, how to say it, to whom to speak but it seems so utterly irrelevant in her presence. He wants to hold her hand. He wants to swim in their creek. He wants to kiss her under the stars. Alqualondë is so much more than this tower full of people.

 

“I love you, too,” she answers, her smile wider.

 

What _is_ the proper way to ask? His father would have him speak the solemn words. Ask her to be his wife. To join the House of Finwë, as is custom. But he does not want that. He would join hers instead, with the swans and the waves and long strolls on the beach.

 

Arafinwë puts a hand on his heart, the only instruction he does recall. “Will you take me as your husband?”

 

He feels his cheeks burning, aware of the implications of his wording and dizzy with hope she will consent. He glances at Olwë. He sees no disapproval in his eyes, only a warm tide of affection. The rest of the Teleri around them look just as pleased. Pearls of laughter spill gently out of Eärwen's eyes.

 

“You may be my husband, Arafinwë,” she says, “and I shall be your wife.”

 


End file.
